The Last Writer Adriane Leigh (story reading TXT) 📖

letter opener from my pocket and aimed it for her black heart. The letter opener sank into the black bodice of her dress, shock widening her eyes before she clutched at the handle.

I stumbled away, tears coursing down my cheeks as Yara stumbled once, tried to pull the dull metal from her chest, then stumbled again and fell at my feet. The waves of her dark hair fell in stark contrast against her twin’s silver strands.

Blood pooled around my sneakers, coloring the tips of Yarrow’s hair first pink and then a deep shade of crimson. It matched the blood-red wallpaper of the library apartments.

Everything had been a sign. Destiny and opportunity had knocked on my door, according to Yara, and I’d slammed the door in its face. It was done.

The reign of Usher House was finally over.

EPILOGUE

One Year Later

I slipped the smooth bone between my index and middle fingers, playing with it absentmindedly as the ferry to Shelter Island chugged across the bay. The shoreline of the island was dotted with stately colonial estates, owned by some of Long Island’s wealthiest residents.

And I was one of them.

I felt out of place often, but the remodel of Usher I’d undertaken had helped thaw some of the local hearts in my favor. Usher had a dark history; I was determined to bring it into the light.

The dark lights of the city skyline faded in the distance at my back. The glitz and glamor of New York long forgotten as I considered the short-term future. My first book, The Last Writer, was an instant success and I’d just returned from a dinner meeting in the city to sign the media rights to the highest-bidding production company. Soon, my words would make their debut on the big screen. A reviewer at The Times had remarked on the innovative way I’d managed to blend history with horror—little did they know, the history was horrifying and as non-fiction as a story could be.

I’d changed names to protect anyone from more pain, but the most important facts had remained the same. Usher House stood tall and stately now, the thick black crack of the facade patched and all the rooms and exterior given such a facelift it was almost unrecognizable from its former haunted heap.

I grinned to myself, thinking how very haunted it still was, despite the fresh paint and new cedar siding. The Usher House remodel had made so many waves in the village of Shelter Island that neighbors lingered outside of the gates as the house transformed into architectural dreams and then soon realtors left their business cards shoved in the gate.

But I had no intentions of selling Usher. Usher finally felt like home.

I’d exorcised a thousand demons to get to that place. Starting with the gardens.

In my quest for the truth, I spent weeks digging in the garden behind the greenhouse and it’d only taken a few shovelfuls of dirt to find the first bone.

Three weeks later and I'd unearthed more than a dozen separate graves. Some seemed to be the graves of young adults, while most were small. I hadn’t even finished unearthing the few acres that sprawled behind the greenhouse, and I didn’t have the heart to any longer, their discovery didn’t provide answers like I’d hoped—only more mystery.

Instead, I’d spent one final night with the ghosts of Usher, lighting candles by the light of the moon and saying prayers as tears coursed my cheeks. Their losses were felt to this day in my heart.

And in memoriam, I’d turned to the statue. The tiny cherub with his quiver, overlooking Usher, as if keeping her safe from harm. In honor of all who’d battled for their lives under its roof, I chose to have it restored. As the plaster was chipped away and its truest form revealed, tears of remorse colored my cheeks at the thought of young love budding between Nate and Zara all those years ago at the centaur-cherub’s hooved feet.

Shivers passed through me as I struggled to understand the depth of Zara Usher Thornberry’s depravity. I’d come to realize that history repeats itself in an endless cycle of genetic memory, and Earth is the broken washing machine of humanity. Everyone comes into this world dirty and only the truly courageous make it out clean after the cycle comes to an end.

On some level, I’d grown empathy for Zara. How must it feel to be deleted from your past?

I’d gone from making her the monster of my story, to only a minor character who was a victim of circumstance. She was my biological grandmother, and I’d honored her to the extent she’d honored the lives of those she’d taken: with a simple, unmarked grave behind the greenhouse in the newly designated Usher House graveyard. Where orchard branches had once sheltered and shadowed the ominous plot of land, sunshine and flowers now bloomed.

Long after the fountain was restored and water flowed from the cherub’s pursed lips, I’d grown obsessed with finding the true nature of young Yara’s burial. I spent hours at the fountain’s edge, watching koi swim in the crystal-clear water as I pored through Zara’s journal. I’d struggled to believe in its truth after discovering the game Zara had orchestrated, but I couldn’t deny the secret codes exchanged between her and Nate—and the abrupt conclusion.

I searched its pages for clues to the reality of Usher and the governess at that time, pored over the code book and medical files in search of more answers, but instead, I only had more questions.

Hiring a private firm to do a geo-scan of the garden was extreme—but not as extreme as the sinking feeling in my heart when the tech operator reported his findings—including a hollow space beneath the stone pathway at the base of the fountain that indicates a disturbance. A disturbance just the right size for a small child.

I’d given up my search then, too wracked with heartache to continue. I imagined that the heaved pathways that wound through the